


Bring Out His Shine

by Arithanas



Series: The Count and his Valet [4]
Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas
Genre: 24/7, Bootblacking, D/s, Dom/sub, Don't Have to Know Canon, M/M, Master/Servant, No verbal dialogue, POV First Person, Rough Oral Sex, Service Kink, Shoe Kink, Subspace, Thigh-high boots, foot rub, sub pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-30
Updated: 2014-06-30
Packaged: 2018-02-06 19:38:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1869885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arithanas/pseuds/Arithanas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. The author is aware that BSDM is a lifestyle and the characters are shown participating in a consensual play for their own personal satisfaction. All characters are 18 years old or older. Dumas & Maquet’s work is public domain.<br/>Synopsis: 1624, Blois. An afternoon of shoe upkeep and discipline. Grimaud POV.<br/>Warnings: Definitively a D/s play. Slash, or more precisely, smut, between two grown up and consenting men.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bring Out His Shine

_Quem me dera eu fosse o burro do moleiro_  
_E que ele me battesse e me estimasse..._  
~ Alberto Caeiro

 

I almost burned my finger with the hot iron —which was not a rare occurrence— when I heard how my master's weight made the stairs creak, not because the stairs were creaky, they always were some really noisy steps and if you put even the slightest strain on them the annoying sound could be heard all the way to my master’s bed. Maybe that was the reason we dwell on this house.

As I was saying, the sound was the first sign of distress, because I know the way my master wanders through life, and the sound of his footsteps was enough for me to know if he was coming at me in chastisement or in rakishness. There was a distinct rhythm in the way he ambled and one can tell if something was amiss by the way that cadence changes. For a moment, I have this image in my mind; I really could see how he dragged his feet with bended knees and slumped shoulders. I think words would fail me to express how disturbing was that image, if you have known my master you would be worried too.

The other obvious sign was his early return; he used to spend these hours in a variety of amusements that involve fighting, fencing, drinking, or any variation of the aforementioned. I put the hot iron down and went to greet him, ready to help him disrobe, trying to keep the wondering expression from my face, my master never take kindly to bear with me and my questioning expression and his hand was quick and heavy.

I could see the pain in his expression at the very moment he opened the door and took his hat off. My master was as tough as his old boots; you won’t hear him carp about his ailments and his misfortunes, but a man can only hide his discomfort up to a point and I know him from head to toes, at the very least he was sore from being on the saddle. As I rushed to put his clothes on their respective pegs, I tried to remember his morning, looking for any sign that made evident his uneasiness, something that I might have overlooked. Did he ask for a fresh shirt? Did he stall in his way out? All I could recall was that he left the house earlier than usual.

I knelt down to loosen the straps that held his scabbard to his waist when I noticed his boots. He was wearing thigh-high boots; the shaft was hugging his powerful legs snuggly over his tight riding breeches. My heart skipped two heartbeats before my mind corrected my initial discovery: Dirty, dry and slightly cracked thigh-high boots… On top of that, I remembered those boots; those were the pair he used when he was young and single.

My master gave me no time to ponder how many years had passed since he put his feet inside those boots; he signaled me that he wanted a bottle while walking slowly toward his favorite chair by the table and I hurried to obey his command and to clear the table, just in case he wanted to take a bite. Our silent way of life always keep me wondering; since he’s not a talkative man and I was not allowed to talk without his unambiguous permission, I had to interpret his attitude and body language.

There is never an open bottle with something to drink under this roof, that’s my master’s chore and, as he used to do with another duties, he fulfilled it with conscience and a certain dark enthusiasm. Sometimes his dedication to the task was a bit terrifying.

While I uncorked a new bottle for him, I wonder about his reasons to change his footwear; you’ll see… my master is a firm believer of never throwing away his old shoes until he had a new pair available, but those boots were an exception. To my best knowledge, and I must know something after years of polishing his leather, those boots were his first Parisian pair, the one his mother gave him when he became a man. There will never be a replacement for those boots since the Lord called Madame to His side far too early.

Nonetheless, there was a long stretch between a young man of seventeen and a soldier of twenty six, despite how small his feet were, those boots should be skin-tight against them and what is the use of a big wide world when your shoes are too small?

I comprehend that he wouldn't wear out his uncomfortable boots and that he will stay at home and therefore it was my duty to amuse him, I put the bottle and a tumbler and went to the chimney to put a bit of water to warm in the embers. I know one should never let one’s feet run faster than one’s shoes, but I was far too used to let my feet run faster than my master’s shoes to give any weight to that piece of folk wisdom. Sooner or later, those boots will need a bit of care and that task will fall upon me.

I took my place behind him to fold his shirts, a little bit to the right, waiting for a signal to fall from his hand, to call me to duty, to give sense to my presence. While my master started to empty tumbler after tumbler, I felt how my shoulders relaxed when the serene feeling of not being responsible for taking any choices started washing over me. It was short-lived, thought. The idea of being delighted while I saw him shuffling his boots by the ball of his feet as if he was trying to force his foot to fit into the toebox was beyond my keen.

I need to do something, anything to make it stop.

Maybe he could change his uncomfortable boots? I went to his bedchamber and brought the newest pair to the main room; if he wasn't using them, maybe the reason was they need a good polish to look passable. Smiling to myself, I went for the grease and the tint and some rags and brushes to give myself to the task. I sat by the window and started brushing them to remove the dirt when the reason of his choice became apparent: my fingers found a long rend that could be not mended by the best cordwainer in Paris.

I was feeling a bit disappointed, I just couldn’t help to let my hopes soar. My master don’t let me indulge into that feeling, he snapped his fingers and scooted his ass to the edge of his chair. I drank his image of utmost virility, bended knees, hands hanging between his thighs, driving my eyes to his codpiece.

To this day I can’t describe what happened next because it was so odd. I can explain part of it was physical, of course, that nice tingle between my thighs, the sudden weight in my belly and the warmth spreading to my toes were the habitual responses whenever he struck a pose, regardless of how unconsciously. But it was not only physical, I lost myself in the blue of his eyes and I understood —again, always, forever— that I was an object for his pleasure, just a tool to make his life easy and my mind toyed with the idea I was making his life a little more effortless just by being there, even if that was only in the littlest of the ways, it was enough to fill me with joy. He didn’t need to ask, I knew what he wanted.

My hand gathered my tools in one of the rags before I crawled to him with my tools in my mouth approaching him with the submission of a stray dog looking for a safe shelter. He never let me kiss his feet, he’s not a man to allow himself a deluded sense of worth, but by the naughty expression on his face I can infer my self-deprecation seemed to please him, I went on hands and knees toward that hand extended in my direction as if to offer me a caress. The movement to pat my head was quick and tender and my eyes welled up in gratitude.

He extended his legs and offered those dirty boots to my care and I went to the task with glee, bowing low to untie the straps that hold the battered butterflies to the boots. As my master reclined and resumed his drinking, I brushed off the dirt with utmost care, making sure I was not to scratching the leather, working from the spur ridge to the boot toe and then the other way around, working the welt to remove the dirt that the boot accumulated after a day of walking around quarters and taverns, knocking off mud, manure and saw dust. Then, I went up, brushing with short movements, following the long lines of his leg, this was just a perfunctory pass with the tool, just an excuse to gauge the general condition of the leather. Then, I must leave his side to bring warm water and olive oil. I stop to reckon if the wine would last him until I finished my task and decided that it was better if I won’t test my fate. I brought another bottle from the pantry and left it by his side, with its cork still on.

On my knees, I dipped my rag in warm water and twisted it hard enough to left it damp instead of wet; water could only do minimal damage to the leather, but I don’t wanted it to seep and burn my master’s foot. I rubbed he heel counter and just above the ankles to demarcate my work area, dipped the rag a bit more and wrung it a little less for that old leather took in the water like the ground after a drought. I worked the instep in circles, washing away whatever traces of dirt that could remain. The deep sight that my master’s let out surprised me until I understood that the faint warmth was relieving his pain. The vamp was pretty battered, in need of some good care; I took notice to return to it later once I had the rest of the boot clean.

I wet my rag again and passed it over his calves, dragging with it the last speckles of dust and extracting a content murmur from my master’s throat. If your step is wrong, all your body suffers, that’s the truth and my joy was immeasurable when I rested my hand on his knee and saw his features relaxed and his head hanging over his shoulder; he was enjoying my cares!

The thighs were next, I could feel under my rag how his muscles tremble, but I couldn't tell if it was caused by my touch or by the heat. I bowed again and restarted the process, letting the left dry while I cleansed the right one, taking good care of scrubbing the vamp thoroughly while feeling how my master’s foot and leg relaxed under my pressing fingers.

God’s my witness, I almost heard him purr under my touch!

My master was that kind of person, one who cannot recognize when a good thing was thrown his way. He was not used to expect good things, for him it was a question of seeking his pleasure willingly or to be inveigled into it with great caution and exertion. I never minded neither a bit of inveigling, nor a lot of exertion, in his behalf, much less so when it was part of my duty. If it was God’s will to send him down a stony path, I beg Him to let me be his strong shoes.

I let his boots dry and took care of the butterflies, watching the way he tried his freshly cleaned boots. It seems like his feet fit better inside the boots now that hot water made them supple again. I crossed my legs and extended my hands, asking him if I might continue my task and his reply was putting his left heel in my palm, with that tired expression that proclaimed to the world how a complacent human being he was. I bowed my head to hide my smile, to spare him the deception of knowing how badly he needed to improve his act. My rag was placed at his heel to catch whatever oil I could spill, I always tried to measure it with great care, but mistakes often happens to the best. The oil was poured over the toe box, I watched how it ran over the instep and how it pooled at the ankle, and then, with my bare fingertips, I started to rub it in small circles, compelling the leather to accept the grease, but I never suspected the reaction I extracted.

That deep groan, stifled only by his powerful will, was accompanied by a shift of his ass in the chair that almost put him in danger of falling off his seat. My master was trying to force his feet into my hands and it was completely against his will, I could tell because he gave me a mortified glance before pouring himself another tumbler of wine to hide his discomfiture. I took it like a personal victory and kept working the oil in small circles around the ankle bone, relishing in the soft approbatory mumble the wine couldn’t conceal.

Once the left foot was well oiled I got ready to take care of the right, I took his foot and repeated the process, massaging from the ankle to the toes, but my master decided that this kind of pleasure was of his liking, because he pointed me with his free hand the part of the boot next to his big toe; it was clear that he wanted me to take care of the place where he felt it tighter and I was happy to comply. My circular motions made the small bones of his foot pop into place; I felt them move under my fingertips before my master retired his foot from my hand in an automatic response to pain.

My scared gasp joined his angry hiss and I cringed and my hands flew to my head, to protect it from the imminent blow, but it never came. After a while, I dared to peek at him, he has his right leg over his left knee and his eyes were watching heatedly the point of his boot; his priorities were clear, he was too busy verifying the state of his toes to care about the stupid one who made them hurt worse than they were hurting before. I bit my lips, trying in vain to stop them from twitching; guilt almost made me whimper. Almost...

There was a silver lining that made my mistake very fortunate; the more my master moved his toes inside the boot, the more his features relaxed. Despite the sudden pang of sharp agony, it seems his ache was relieved even further because his face showed a good deal mystification for a moment, before his eyes felt on me and that look cut my guilt off. Even if he gave me his foot to pick up my work where I left off, I knew what was in store for me and I disregarded it immediately; in that precise instant I had more important things to mind than the safety of my hide: I needed to make up for the involuntary suffering I made him feel. It was always a shame that he never let me kiss his boots; there were times, like this one, when I had an undeniable need to express my regret.

My work proceeded with a softer approach, my fingers worked his foot with soft pressure until the appreciative murmur returned and his stance was more relaxed. I was not fooled; I felt the weight of his eyes on me and knew he was finding the appropriate punishment for my carelessness and a dark cloud of disquiet began to form over my head.

As I put his foot in the wooden floor, I realized I was wrong to feel fretful; my concern was only a way to hide from my master and to allow myself to rebel. It made me sad in ways I couldn't explain for dear life. I took a deep breath and resigned to my fate; it he found fit to hurt me then I would take the pain to please him, and that was the end of it. I put the pot with the dubbin in the hot water and returned to my chore with a heavy heart.

Under his silent presence I took a deep breath and focused in his eyes, under his stare, my worthless task became an act of adoration, my only and sole thought became his pleasure, I failed in my duty, I hurt him and I should atone for it. I narrowed it in my mind; my whole world became his body, his boots and my hands on them.

My oily rag in hand I took his right heel and used it to rub the shaft, distributing the oil evenly in the parts that receive less daily friction, caring for his soreness and aiming to release the tension I felt under the leather, I caressed his knee, and then his thighs. Part of me was enjoying the way his old boots started to look like new. I applied a bit of tint on the creases and went to his left boot, casting a quick evaluation glance to the shafts and there were no challenge. I picked up his foot and devoted myself to bring it to a similar state under the lazy afternoon sun.

Soon I was applying tint to the small scrapes in the toebox and while it dried up I polished the butterflies, enjoying how my master poured himself another tumbler of wine and admired the advance and I was proud of my technique, because those were shiny and supple and my master’s slightly raised eyebrows were the best compliment someone could made me.

I took the dubbin off the warm water and I must admit this next step I took it for selfish reasons. The oil would protect this boots for the day but tallow and wax will keep them easy to clean and will keep my master’s feet dry, which means less work to clean his hosiery; it was just horse sense. I kneel and placed his right foot on my bended knee before taking the dubbin rag and twisted it around my finger and dipped it to scope some dubbing, it was almost hot. I worked it in small circles on his right foot, betting on the heat relieving his pain better than my touch.

My master groaned when the melted wax and tallow touched the sore spot, but this time I didn’t let him recover his foot; he would need a more forceful approach if he wanted me to stop. Dubbing dries quickly and if one doesn’t work it fast and spreads it evenly the whole effect is ruined and it looks awful, like someone spurted their seed on it. It was an entirely not desirable effect and I was trying to avoid it at all cost while minding the welt and the spur ridge and working the heelcap and the quarters, before covering the vamp and starting ascending all the way to his knee. By the time I reached it, my master was purring again in content, I didn’t even have to take his foot since he was helpful enough to put it on my knee while I was scooping more dubbing.

Once I finished waxing his boots I put both of my knees on the wood and took my buffing brush, enjoying in advance the sweet music of the horsehair bristles against the leather. I moved the brush in short arcs to remove the excess of wax and to make it shine with that soft glow of well nurtured leather; the task looked simple, but soon I was getting warm under my collar. There was a short pause, I took my hair out of my eyes and sighed, the light was getting dim; I needed to work with more haste before it got dark. I bent my back and renewed the task, losing myself in the sound of horse hair furnishing a good shine out of those boots.

When I finished brushing those boots they looked like they were just bought from the cordwainer shop, but that was not enough for me, I always took pride sending my master out to the world dressed like a prince, those boots were not ready until his captain turn his head to admire them. I took another rag and held it tight between my hands; it was time to bring it to a deep, long-lasting shine. The task was simple, but demanding, too much pressure and you strip the wax away, too little and the boot won’t shine. I buffed the front part of his thighs, just enough to make it shine since it has any wax, and then I passed the rag under his thigh and buffed a little more, so my master looked just as good from behind. I went down and the sudden knowledge of people admiring my master gripped my heart in a sudden bout of jealousy, for a skip second I wanted to undo my work, to avoid people from looking at him… I couldn’t help myself. I bit my lip and kept buffing for I belonged to my master and not the other way around. He was born to be admired, to be coveted and to be desired, God wouldn't made him so handsome if that wasn't his plan, and I should be grateful because I enjoyed his attention, no matter how seldom. His was the choice, not mine.

I was breaking a sweat, buffing the back part of his calves really made my back work, and it didn't matter how much care I take, large drops of sweat fell on his vamp, I was never more grateful for the wax. I sat and took a deep breath, approving the way the shaft of his boots reflected the dying light of the day, which was the evidence of my hard work being almost done, I bent a knee and put my master’s foot on it, to buff his heel and his toecap after wiping my sweat from the vamp. Buffing with the rag was not as satisfactory as doing it with the brush, but the results were astonishing, when I finally finished polishing both boots and looked at them I could almost recognize my likeness in the leather, I knelt down and attached butterflies and spurs to my master's heels and a sense of accomplishment washed over me.

Those were beautiful to see!

I felt his right hand under my chin, barely applying force to make me raise my face from the shiny mirror his boots had become. For a bit, I must confess, I felt scared; watching his deep blue eyes was like watching a still pool and the face in which those were embed was even more unmoving, if that was possible. I weighted my choices and chose to stay there, with my eyes in his, waiting for his orders or his blows. Ready to be, for him, whatever he needed me to be. He rose from his chair, I followed his lead; his right hand still in my chin was the driven force that made my back straight, but his left hand was diligent in following other endeavors below his belt. I felt my mouth watering in anticipation and my tongue darted to make a round over my lips. He laughed at my reaction, a real laugh, one that I hadn’t heard in months and I felt silly and proud at the same time.

Since my master would let me taste his seed my pride was justified, but I knew he was really not pleased because he didn’t let it hang out for me to do all the work, he knew I always relish to suck his cock dry; so I better steel against whatever he had planned for me. I squared my shoulders and drew my arms back to try some restraint by clutching the sleeves of my shirt. I’m not allowed to touch him, except with his unequivocal permission and that was not given, I didn’t want to spoil it, so I hold my cuffs for dear life; it was uncomfortable, but taking his cock in my ass always was as unpleasant and that never deterred me from spreading my cheeks for a good shafting, this one was not different.

Our eyes met, we never need words. He could see I understand why he was about to punish me; I could see he was being consistent, like he always had been for the last ten years. I surrendered to him like a believer submits to God: unconditionally, without questions, relying on His mercy… As he balled a bunch of my hair by my nape, I took a deep breath and opened my mouth, sticking out my tongue as if I was to take the sacrament.

And may God have mercy on my sinful soul; I rather take his cock than the host any day of the week.

He slid his cock in my mouth with a single stroke and, for a bit, I was scared of gagging on it; but I just kept my eyes on his, winking away the involuntary tears, mumbling my discomfort. To my surprise, mumbling served other purposes than letting him know he was doing a good job, it also allowed me to control the subsequent nausea so I kept doing it, in earnest this time, until my master threw his head back and began rolling his hips with listless abandonment. As he picked up his rhythm I found it was easier to breath with his hardness in my mouth, even if he still tried to go as deep as he could into my throat. I remained in my knees, focusing of keeping my mouth open for him, disregarding the pulling of my hair and the drool dripping on my shirt.

He didn’t care for anything else, except his pleasure; I cared for nothing, except his pleasure.

After a while, I felt the weight of his blue eyes on me, as if he was asking for something; I nodded slightly, signaling him that his dick in my mouth was tolerable. His features relaxed and a hint of smile touched his lips, he didn’t even miss his tempo. I was reassured because he cared about my wellbeing, I felt more at ease, and devoted myself to enjoy his thrusts, basking on the fact I was there providing him with a much necessary pleasure and it didn’t took me long to notice the drive of his pushes was in the ball of his feet; if my mouth were not engaged otherwise, I would smile.

I felt how his fingers slid on my hair and got a good grip of my head before he hastened his cadence in search of his pleasure. Even though he didn't plunged as deep as he did before, my only priority was to keep breathing, I relaxed and accepted passively, with closed eyes, the rough caress of his cock, gliding down my throat with the help of my own saliva; and I was not ashamed of being hard when he manhandled me that way with his delighted grunts as the background noise, I closed my lips against his girth, unwilling to lost a sensation.

His joyful spurt took me unaware when I was drawing breath; at my distressed sounds my master took a step back and I put my hands on the floor trying to expel the liquid from my throat while my master patted me between the shoulder blades in silent concern until I gasped for air. I was about to spit whatever seed remained in my mouth until I noticed his beautiful boots were on the way and I swallow it without thinking to utter an appreciative exclamation which made my master laugh again. I raised my eyes to him and smiled and he returned it, we were both safe and right and we liked it that way.

I felt into my role again, in my knees, while my master patted my head, I replaced his shames inside the pouch and tied the cords to keep his modesty. I contemplated his face and feeling kind of mischievous I kissed his codpiece in gratitude which has promptly rewarded with a quick slap to my nape, well-temperate by the appreciation he felt for me. It was quick and mostly painless but, oh, so humbling…

My master’s lips parted, he was about to address to me and I waited for his words, even if it was a most deserved scolding, but God willed it otherwise. That damned creaky stair alerted him of a visitor and the words died in his mouth. As he went to the door, I recover my vertical and hurried to heed his silent call to help him with his attire.

I handed him his hat and hurried to close the straps of his swords around his small waist, making a mental note to polish his scabbard to make it fit with those boots. I could hear my master’s friend flirting shamelessly with the landlady and smiled while I help my master to put his cape in that askew fashion that the fashion statement of the year. My master spared a glance of gratitude before crossing the threshold to meet his comrade and my heart swelled with pride.

I closed the door behind him, but I was not quick enough and I could hear the appreciative whistle my master’s friend let out at the sight of those shinny boots. I smiled and reclined my head against the rough wood, I did my duty well…

Well, I still have shirts in want for good ironing and starching.

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a personal challenge to know how many sayings and proverbs I could de-automate while writing a story.


End file.
